


Red and Gold

by Liafail, lizzysarai



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liafail/pseuds/Liafail, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzysarai/pseuds/lizzysarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur realizes how much of his day is wrapped in the colour red; from the knight’s cloaks to the unfurled banners in the Great Hall; from the blood of his enemies to that of his own people..</p>
<p>While Merlin may not fight beside him as a knight, he fights as many battles in his own way. From the dragon on the banners, to the magic in his eyes, Merlin is bathed in a glow that Arthur would do anything to keep from being bloodied, but finds himself powerless to protect.</p>
<p>The two watch summer unfurl in crimson banners and gilded sunsets, and despite the heartache, they can almost feel the approach of something greater than the blood and battles they currently face...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MerlinRVBB  
> Thanks: LizzySarai and Polomonkey

**Banners and Blood**

Arthur stood with a frown across his face and his eyes focused to the cobbles of the inner courtyard.

“My son, I hear you’re to rout the layabouts in the Western Woods.”

“Yes, Father,” he sighed. 

Uther turned to the man beside him, a newly minted Lord from the south. 

“Elrick, one day your son will be a fine knight of Camelot.”

Arthur startled, his father granting knighthood without his input was a serious breach in the unsteady respect of boundaries they’d begun maintaining the past few years. He gritted his teeth. 

“I fully expect your son to have the chance any of Camelot has, the chance to trial for a place in the Knighthood.”

Uther laughed. 

“Knighthood is a mark of nobility, it’s inherent. I’m sure your son will show the same colours you’ve always shown.”

Elrick laughed. 

“Which son? I have three,” to which Uther visibly flinched. “Alan. My youngest is all I brought with me today.”

“It’s earned,” Arthur muttered while the two men bonded.

He sighed inwardly, clearly this noble had something his father wanted. He gave a slight bow of his head. 

“Father. Good day to you, Lord Elrick,” he fumbled at the courtesy, “and best of luck to your sons someday.”

Uther stilled him with his gaze. 

“Arthur, you shall take Lord Elrick, and his youngest son with you.”

Arthur’s temper rose. 

“I am not hunting sport, I am protecting a village. This is not a child’s game.”

“That you would even call it a game,” his father barrelled on, “shows how much insight and wisdom you could gain from a noble’s tutelage.”

“Elrick, would you show my son how it is done? His arm is true, but it would do my heart well to see my son beside a leader of men.”

Arthur ground his teeth. So little faith in him, so much of his honor being tossed aside for the sake of one newly minted lord. What did his father want of him?

Elrick shook his head. 

“I could not compare to you Uther.”

Bootlicker, was all Arthur could think to himself.

“Well alas, matters keep me close to home, today,” his father said, smiling indulgently at the compliment. 

Coward, Arthur’s mind shouted.

Elrick smiled a fatherly smile at Arthur. 

“Your father doesn’t do you half the credit you deserve, I’ve heard tales of you and your men, and the defense they bring to this kingdom.”

Arthur decided he might actually not murder the Lordling once out the gates.

“My son Alan is used to hunting by himself in the forests of our land, not to working as a group. It would be good for him to see action with other men of honour. I look forward to seeing you lead your men in action.”

Arthur looked at Elric, level to his eye, willing the Lordling to understand. 

“This is a canvas and arrest for fugitives in an area where we know two different camps have converged. We don’t have full information. We do not know how many are criminals, and how many are merely unfortunates. I cannot guarantee the safety of you or your son. You do not know the area, nor do you have the appropriate gear.” 

Uther put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, clenching tight and stopping his lecture. 

“My son, you do not do your warriors enough credit.” 

He gentled his grip. 

“Elrick’s son Alan would make a fine squire, better than that ragamuffin you call a servant that follows your heels. It would do you good to have companions of merit. This way you can see the strength we have when we stand together.”

“Yes sire,” he sighed. 

Arthur looked around the courtyard for Merlin, to see if he could send him to dissuade at least the son, but then he remembered he’d not seen him at all that morning; another faceless, nameless set of hands laying out things before he’d woken.

“I take my leave of you to prepare, sire.” 

Elrick bowed deeply, and then only slightly less shallowly to Arthur. He walked off, and his father trailed behind.

“Arthur,” Uther’s voice was close. “The Lord of Cunliffe holds the borders and paths to Nemeth. His information on their movements, their leniency towards sorcerers, their spies, all come across his lands.”

“I thought you wished to make peace with Nemeth.”

He scoffed. 

“A King prepares for war, and then offers peace as an alternative. Do not mistake me, this is a connection I will need to ensure our upper hand in the upcoming negotiations.”

The King turned his back, and strode off. Without a return glance, he called out. 

“And Arthur, you will be returning them impressed with our prowess.”

The unspoken or you will have failed me rang loud in Arthur’s ears.

Arthur left the inner courtyard, and entered the bailey, through the shadows of the wall. The sun rose high and the sound of the men gathered was loud and raucous in the morning light. Arthur saw the bright crimson of his men’s cloaks, and something inside him stirred, and the frustration with his father was waylaid by his feeling of pride. Arthur took his time with each man, and inspected packs, armor, and saddles -- Merlin’s missing presence almost chastising him to double and triple check little things that he would normally trust to others.

He could admit to himself, a missing Merlin had him a bit paranoid. He’d have to send someone for him. Arthur sighed, putting his hand on a horse’s flank and ducking his chin. Or perhaps not. Hadn’t Merlin shown that he deserved to be trusted? Arthur stamped down his unease and patted the chestnut hide in front of him.

A loud excited whoop broke his thoughts and he turned to see the child who’d come to see off the knights. Arthur’s frown from earlier returned when he saw him, his noble father pushing his son to the forefront of the men. Gods, he was young.

Arthur winced, as the boy tripped and caught himself, his father laughing at his eagerness. He was fair, and dressed in good leathers, but the gangly limbs reminded him far too much of Merlin. These two were going to be a burden. 

Elrick thumped his son’s shoulder and pointed at the prince. Arthur took a deep breath and walked over, a hand outstretched. “You must be Alan.” 

The youth shyly ducked his head and his father kicked at his boot. He startled and bowed to the prince, mouthing courtesies he no doubt spent half the day practicing.

“My men do not bow to me when we are on patrol. As you’ll be joining us today, I insist you don’t as well. Either of you.” Elrick chuckled and Alan raised his head, pride gleaming in his eyes.

“Thank you, Prince Arthur.” His voice warbled a bit, torn between the lower registers of a youth, and the higher ones of a child. 

Arthur sighed inside, the burden of a beardless boy was the last thing he needed today.  
Thankfully, Alan showed himself to be quite adept with the horses, clever fingers touching the tack with purpose and checking straps. 

Arthur felt a bit of relief at his competence. It will be easier to manage his unwelcome guests if they could keep a fair seat. He watched Alan mount his loaned mare, and nodded his approval to Elrick. A few years and some sense would do Alan well. 

It seemed only a few moments, though in reality half the morning, before they are riding through the gates, cloaks and armor streaming and gleaming through the city. Arthur let his head tilt back to take in the sunshine and the bright crimson of Camelot’s banners filled his vision.

Eyes filled with the red and gold, face warm in the light, he thought over what Merlin must think of the banners, of each time they ride out together. He mused for a bit and then shuddered, sitting up straight once more -- Merlin isn’t riding out with him this time, what if it was a bad sign?

Though the knowledge of Merlin's magic has had all summer to settle under his skin, he had only just begun to realize the change to himself and Camelot, and he wondered what the banners will mean when he is king, what they will mean to Merlin then.

The camp in question was half a day’s ride, and Arthur’s lungs filled with the warm summer air and the sense of freedom. The weight of his armor was a solid comfort, and the sound of the hooves on the undergrowth sent puffs of warm woody scents floating in the sunshine and dappled shade.

Arthur had relaxed a league ago, and found himself grinning at Alan’s fierce joy at being included among the men, and his pride in his new short sword. He regaled Arthur with stories of the north, of his time in fosterage, and the men of the forest who taught him to walk silently and sneak up on cats. Despite their nearness to the camp, Arthur found himself entertained with the boy’s stories, and he took up the Merlin-sized hole at his side.

“I doubt you could catch one of the castle cats. They happen to be a fast, canny lot,” Arthur said, ducking his head to hide his smile behind a gauntlet.

Alan snorted then giggled, a child’s sound in a lanky frame working its way to a man’s. 

“Is that a challenge, Prince Arthur?”

“What say you Prince Arthur, if my son can catch one of your cats, a boon?” 

Arthur grinned and thought back to his servant who likely knew all the toms by name. 

“Oh I think we could make it a challenge. Cunliffe cat catching versus Camelot’s rat-catchers.”

The pull of a bowstring and the thud of an arrow took Arthur by surprise, and for the first time in memory, Arthur felt paralysed to act as the scene unfolded before him.

The arrow that blossomed from Alan’s chest was the first launched, but it was the second and third that made certain his death.

The sortie against them ended as a rout, the screams of a dying horse and the clang of arms and armor a weird cacophony, punctuated by Elrick’s mournful wailing. The area and the descriptions fit the group described by the attacked travelers, but Arthur could not believe their insanity; attacking a fully armored group… well, not all were fully armored, he choked.

The knights made short work of the attack, and none were left as prisoners. Arthur knew he would have to speak to his men about that later, but for now, there was an accounting of their own.

A gelding and Alan seemed to be the only casualties. 

Steeling himself, Arthur went to Elrick. 

“I am sorry,” was all he could find words to say, a murmured phrase filled with regret and rage.

Arthur would never forget the scene before him. Elrick holding his son close to his heart, the colour of blood over pale lips, the crimson of Camelot’s colours as a donated Knight’s cloak held the pale flesh close.

They made a somber procession as they returned. He made no strides to speak to the King, his father, of his failure. His regrets. 

Arthur returned to his chambers, the late afternoon sun limning the room in gold. There was no sign of Merlin.

Behind closed doors, he let his emotions slip and run wild until he trembled with the force of it. He dipped a cloth into the washbasin and scrubbed at the blood on his skin, the water turning a lurid shade of peach in the afternoon sunlight. Tomorrow his father would find him, rage at him, but today Arthur needed a friend.

Gaius’ rooms were empty, and the guards at the inner bailey had not seen him all day. Frustrated at the lack of answers, he entered the town and decided on a stop at the tavern.

When the barkeep looked blank and asked “who?” Arthur had to just shake his head in wonder, as if Merlin was ever really at the tavern at any time.

Finding himself in the lower town, he walked aimlessly about, occasionally stopping to ask a shopkeeper at an open air stall, or a member of the watch if they’d seen him. 

His people smiled and pointed him onward, deeper and deeper into town, and into poorer and poorer regions. Merlin had clearly made a number of deliveries early that morning, but where was he now? 

Acting on a hunch, he walked to the main gate, where the guards confirm his suspicions - that he went outside the gates, not long after the patrol had left. One of the men looked at him with an odd expression, and suggested he follow the outer wall straight west. 

A walk outside the walls towards the rougher stone to the west found him at a part of Camelot he’d never seen. A shanty town crumpled on the south side of her parapets; tents and discarded, broken things. They scurried from him, never meeting his eyes, the whispers built as he passed, and what little he caught barely sounded legible to his ears. A scrap of conversation: “a knight” is one he heard, “hide” is another.

Here, outside the walls, they do not know their prince. The thought sobered him.

He’d walked past the first few tents and rubbish before he caught the eye of a thin young man, straw colored hair grown long over a pale face, body turned to hide a small child behind him.

“You lad. I’m looking for a man. Gangly, black hair. He walk through here?” 

The boy fidgeted, eyes to the ground. 

What seemed to be a little girl tugged on his ratty tunic. 

“Heyas likkin fera ‘eela.”

Arthur restrained the urge to loom over the boy, and pulled his hand from his sword.

“Boy, I asked you a question.”

Shyly, he looked up from under the nest of hair, eyes hard. “Whatta be likken fera’m?”

Arthur blinked and rolled the sentence over in his mind. 

“He’s a friend. I’m looking to find him.”

The change in the boy’s pose was startling. He stood up and raised his chin 

“I kin finda the ‘eela for you. He’sa widd the widdem.”

Arthur shook his head. 

“Then lead on, and there will be a reward for you.” 

A flash of teeth was his only answer as the boy grasped the girl’s hand and darted between a tent and an upturned wagon. 

Arthur grasped only a bit of the chatter, as the boy and his follower barked out questions to the occasional tent. People relaxed around him, as the boy must have clearly told in some fashion that he was no threat to the driftless camp.

Just what Merlin was doing with these people, Arthur could not imagine. 

“Widdem here” the boy said, tugging on his cloak. He pointed to a ramshackle hut, leant against the outer wall, a pair of ladders and hide covering the entrance to some second story.

While he waited, he looked around, and back, at the small cook fires, and the tents, and realised the camp was not as transitory as he though, these people had been here for some time. 

Camelot’s Outcasts, not even accepted in the lower town.

Suddenly the idea of Merlin being here turned his stomach. Outcasts. Perhaps this is where Merlin found people like himself.

The little girl, took her thumb from her mouth in a plop. 

“‘eala be’en ella bairn ‘avin.”

Arthur shook his head and crouched. 

“I have no idea what you’re saying little one.”

A giggle, and then the thumb went back.

Arthur rummaged in the small pack on his belt. Flint, tinder, a thong of leather, not much to give to a small child. A bit of gleam in the seam showed him a silver penny. 

The creak of the rickety ladder alerted him to the boy’s return. 

“Where to next, boy?”

The frown on the boy’s features set by the dirt on his face made stark lines. He scowled, just pointed back towards the hut. The shanty house made a squeak and a groan, and two wizened women came from behind the flap.

“Good knight, I hear you seek the healer?” the elder of the two asked.

Arthur took in the stooped figure and the taller woman beside her. “Yes, I’m looking for a man, dark hair, he assists the physician.”

She looked aside to the taller woman, who shook her head, and sighed softly. 

“He’ll be up on the ridge.”

Arthur looked up across the rocky gully, to the gorse and trees. He flipped the found coin to the boy, whose expression grew bright. 

“Cressa’ knight, cressa.”

“Thank you good women.” 

He turned and walked across the stones and the grass, through the dark of the scrub, and climbed the hill. He could see the worn tracks from the camp where people came and went.

Once past the gorse he saw the sitting figure. The summer’s light was soft around him from the west, a long wash of gold in the sunset.

He shook his head, and walked up to the crest. Arthur needed Merlin, and here he was, idling on a hill.

The twilight’s shadows begin to loom, the last of the sunset red and swirling, purple and gold and violet and peach; the castle walls still gilded, the shadows on the ground long.

Silently he came to stand beside Merlin, and took in the scene, Merlin’s back held stiff and hunched as he sat and stared into the west. 

“So, for once you're not at the tavern.”

The softest huff. 

“No, Arthur, I’m not.” 

The moment stretched long, and a cloud bank drifted across the sky, and the glow slipped from Camelot’s walls. 

“Well whatever you were doing out in this little hellish hole, you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Arthur turned and went to return to the path, braced for the long walk back to his chambers, taking the first few steps with sure strides. Merlin’s voice brought him up short.

“It is hell,” he said neither softly nor loudly, but firm and cold, like his father at trial.

For a moment Arthur’s hand trembled, the ghost of feeling as he held the dead squire’s hand. 

Arthur could find no wise reply. 

“Sometimes life is.” 

Arthur turned back, Merlin still sitting and staring away at the setting sun.

Merlin turned to face Arthur, and his insides turned to ice at the visage before him. Blood flecked his brow, and tracks of tears made pink and brown runnels down the corners of his eyes, down hollows. Even in the twilight, he could see how stiff the fabric was across his chest, and he sat hunched, holding himself tightly.

Arthur took the space between them in long strides, falling to the ground before Merlin, hands finding his shoulders. 

“What happened to you?” he gritted out from a jaw clamped tight against the strange pain inside. He blinked, and he could see Alan’s blonde hair and the blood that welled from his lips swarm across his Merlin’s features, treacherous vision blurring them together as one.

“What’s wrong, Merlin?” 

He wanted to wretch, to touch, to pat him down until he reacted, but instead Merlin was limp in his grasp as he shook his shoulders. 

“Please be alright,” he gritted out.

“Arthur,” his voice was thick and just wrong to Arthur’s ears. “Arthur, just leave me be.”

“Is this…” he couldn’t find a way to ask.

“It’s not mine.”

Arthur swallowed. He breathed deep and willed his heart to return to something like a normal rhythm. He took his hands off Merlin’s shoulders, and leaned back to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The armor made the gesture feel cold, and lacking the strength he wanted to provide, so he leaned over and placed a hand on his knee. 

“How can I help?”

“Just leave me be.” 

He turned back to the sunset.

Arthur waited a moment, then three before he knew what to reply. 

“I think that you could use a friend.”

Merlin’s head bowed, and he curled farther into himself. 

“Princes aren’t friends with servants. With,“ he hiccuped, “with fatherless bastards.”

Arthur squeezed the trembling man’s knee. 

“This one is.”

A shaky breath, and Arthur turned to see his face in profile, watched him swallow. “I hate it when they don’t have names. Like it was all for nothing.”

Arthur wanted to shake his head and force an answer, but the past few weeks, no months, had reinforced again and again he needed to look and listen, and nothing he could do to force the matter ever helped.

“What you do, the people you help. It’s not nothing Merlin. You try, where people just don’t know how to help. You do good for the people of Camelot.”

A choked off sob.

He waited a bit and the shadows lengthened. 

“What do you mean about the names?”

Merlin sat back and unraveled long limbs to show a small bundle of clothing and blood. He looked down and freed one hand to wipe his eyes. 

“I need to figure out a name for this one.”

Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s knee froze. 

“Once the mother goes, it’s almost impossible to save them. I tried though, I really did.” He looked up at Arthur, “I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you today.”

“Oh, Merlin,” his eyes welled, “I think you had your own battle to fight today.” He willed his glassy eyes to stop betraying him, and pulled his hand off Merlin’s thigh. 

“May I?”

Merlin’s eyes rounded and his mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. His gaze softened and he reached out with the bloody tunic, and its hidden occupant.

Arthur pulled back the blue and red linen, the blood making sections stiff, and the others sticky. A soft thatch of hair and a tiny little face. In the shadows it seemed a doll, the kind of thing done in bisque and clay that Morgana might have had at one time, if he’d paid attention to her toys.

“So, a name?” he looked down at the child. 

“Is it….” he stammered, “can you tell what it is?”

A snort leaning towards a laugh. 

“It’s a girl, and yes, you can tell.”

“So a girl’s name… it’s such a little thing. Weighs less than a bird.” He took a finger and touched a waxen cheek. “Linnet.”

Merlin looked at him, face pinched. 

“What was that?”

“It’s a girl’s name, I met a shepherd girl once, it’s a nickname for little bird, a little finch that loves to get into the flax seeds.” 

His voice trails off, and he wondered if he should cover the little one’s face.

Merlin cocked his head, wonder evident in his eyes. 

“It’s beautiful. Prat, that’s perfect.”

“You should… name her.” 

He held the bundle out to Merlin.

Merlin shook his head. 

“You are the prince. Give her the name you chose.”

“I’ve not an idea...” he trailed off. “What do I do?”

“I don’t know. There probably is some ceremony.”

Arthur thought over his childhood, but other than weapons and warfare, there had been little time on ceremonies other than to be trotted out as the heir and made to stand at attention for hours.

“Have you,” his voice crept out, tentatively, “done this before?”

“Yeah.” 

It was near a sigh.

“What did you do then?”

“I just,” he sighed again and wrapped his hands around his knees, “I just tapped their heads and told them their names and wished them luck in their next lives.” 

The softest smile ghosted across Arthur’s face: Merlin was Merlin. 

“Then that will be ceremony enough.”

He tapped the child’s forehead twice. 

“Hello little Linnet. I am sorry that we could not meet you.” he stumbled to a stop, unsure of the next step, “but, er, if you like, come to Camelot next time, you are welcome.”

Merlin’s unwrapped his hands from his knees, and face went stony. 

“No, she wasn’t.”

Arthur started. 

“Merlin, I’m trying to do something important here, why are you arguing with me?”

“Because Camelot cast her out into this midden heap, and that child is dead because the mother starved.” 

Merlin pulled the linen bundle from his arms, and rose. 

“I’m taking her back to be buried with her mother.”

“Merlin,” he called out softly. “I am sorry for failing her. I did not know”

Merlin choked out a sob. 

“It’s not your fault.”

“And yet, you would see me some storied king of Camelot -- so yes, it is. Even now, you blame me.” Arthur stumbled across his words.

“It’s just, it’s not fair.” Merlin breathed out. “Not fair.” 

Arthur stared at his empty hands, and the smear of blood around his knuckles from the mother’s blood. 

“I can’t save them all, I’m so sorry.” 

He choked, and his eyes glazed, hot and prickly, and the lump in his throat halted him until he swallowed twice. 

“I can’t save them all.”

Merlin stood there, torn, with one hand towards his prince, the other curled around the dead child.

“What happened today Arthur?”

“Just another I couldn’t save. Maybe you could have, or maybe you would have died today in his place. Just another day where Camelot’s banners are the colour of blood. Just another one to bury.”

He knelt, and then stood, the creak of his armor loud in the darkness. He dashed the tears from his cheeks. 

“I will help you bury them.”

“Arthur, you’re the prince.”

“Yes, Merlin, and you’re the servant. And the master of the obvious.” He looked down at his hands. “I said I would bury them.” 

He stared at Arthur in the dark of twilight, eyes unreadable. The moment stretched long and thoughtful. 

“Yes, my prince.”

 

* * *

**Cloudless Days and Times of Grace**

The heat made tempers short and the days long, and the sudden swelter pushed off training and crime in equal measure. No one wanted to do anything when it seemed to take so much effort.

Arthur threw down the book in front of him to the desk and adjusted his position in the chair, the leather making a strange sound as he slid sweaty skin across the seat. 

“That’s it, I’m getting out.”

Merlin looked up from his book. 

“Out?”

“Yes, out!” he near exploded, the chair almost toppling as he threw himself out of it. “I’ve had enough of the stone and the stifling heat, and there is just only so many times you can go check on the horses, or take a nap, or…” he sneered, “read.”

“Oh Arthur, you and your inbred hatred of learning,” Merlin tutted.

He narrowed his eyes. 

“Oh Merlin, you and your girly peasant ways.”

“I don’t see me complaining as much.”

Arthur eyed him up and down. 

“You don’t have a shirt on.”

“You said you didn’t care what I wore in your chambers!”

“Well, that didn’t mean you could cavort around half clothed while I suffer in wool!”

“Well then put on something not wool!”

“You’re the one who dressed me!”

A sly grin. 

“Heh, that’s right I did.”

“Oh, you rat, you did this on purpose.”

“Itchy much sire?” 

“I’ll show you itchy!” 

He grabbed him in a headlock and began to knuckle his hair, shoving his face into his armpit. He rubbed the lightly woven wool over his face. “Itchy yet?”

“Oh, let me… breathe, that’s, oh…. you’re foul.”

“Then get me a cold bath, and a new shirt, Merlin!”

Merlin looked at him flatly. 

“Not a chance.”

Arthur grinned. 

“Then let’s get out.”

Merlin tilted his head. 

“Maybe swimming?” 

He pulled the linen tunic over his dark hair.

“For once, you’re not as dumb as you look,” Arthur smirked, and waved Merlin towards the exit.

At the door Merlin stopped him with a dry reply. 

“Your compliments leave me weak in the knees, sire.” 

The flight from the castle was a heady one, the dust rising from the road and the heat of the horse's flanks between their thighs. In silence they raced to the usual spot they sought out in moment of abandon, north and a bit west to the river that churned through the western ridge and settled lazily into inlets and pools further in. 

The water was cool and dark under the moss-covered oaks. Wrens bounced about from the shrubs to the rushes in the shallows, and the black and blue dragonflies buzzed lazily to and fro.

“Have you ever thought….” Arthur mused, floating near the center of the pond, while Merlin stretched in the shallows.

“Why yes, I have managed a thought or two in my lifetime.” 

A splash in his direction was the only rebuttal. 

“Thought about what?”

“Camelot,” he breathed out as if tasting the word.

Merlin’s hands stilled. 

“Always.”

“Do you think I could change the banners?”

“What about them?”

“When…. when it happens.” 

For it was always it, this moment when Arthur would become king was always the moment they could never talk about, and forever would just be… it. 

“Can I, should I?”

“I suppose so, you’d be the king. What about the banners offends you so?”

“Just, that they are red.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that” he snorted, and returned to floating on his back, an arms length away from his prince.

“They are the color of blood.” 

The words hang in the air, wet and humid and thick. One moment turns to many and the sound of the river inlet is the only discussion.

“Red is many things Arthur. It’s just that… you and I have only been seeing the blood.”

“Like what?”

“Red stands for courage, for love. So many beautiful ideals. It’s just hard to see that when all you see is blood.” Merlin turned his face to Arthur, and smiled softly. “Let me show you something?”

“Yeah. What kind of something?”

“Something red, something beautiful.” 

He splashed out to the riverbank, and picked up Arthur’s shirt. 

Arthur glided to the shallows, dug his toes into the small rocks, and stood 

“That’s my shirt.”

“Settle down, I’m just borrowing a bit of it.” 

He tossed the shirt back into the pile of their clothes, his hand curled into a fist. At the river’s edge he kneeled and Arthur pulled close. 

With a whisper of words, Merlin uncurled his fist and blossoms floated in the water. Hyssop and wild roses, poppy and primrose, all in unabashed scarlet.

Arthur splashed at him and the flowers scattered. 

“So still a girl.”

Merlin’s mouth turned into a line. 

“Flowers for the dead. For Alan, for Linnet.”

Arthur stilled his hands, and watched the ripples settle. With a gentle touch he cupped each scattered bloom, and gently corralled them back into the space between them.

He cocked his head. 

“So, you can make flowers?”

“Not,” he breathed out. “Not exactly. I just used some of your tunic and made these. They will fade in time and fall back to just threads. I just thought…” he trailed off, uncertain.

Arthur reached a hand out to his. 

“You thought well.”

Merlin walked farther into the river, past the lazy shallows and into the current, a few flowers clutched in his hands. One by one he let them go, and Arthur left him to his silence. He thumbed the petals of the few left behind and shook his head.

He threaded the hyssop and poppy through his fingers and swam out one handed to Merlin. Beside his friend, he let his own flowers go; in memory and in a renewed sense of purpose.

And they fell into a relaxed silence and floated in the waters as the small puffs of white puttered across the blue sky.

The shadows lengthened, and wind began to chill. They both made for the bank at the same time, helping each other past the rushes and rocks with a silent agreement.

Arthur flexed his shoulders in the last rays of sunshine, and pulled on clothes. His hair was merely damp from having stopped floating much earlier, but Merlin’s curls were soaked and dripping. His fingers itched to tussle them and move the silence into their usual banter. 

In a moment of tact he reached into his discarded saddle bag and drew out an older tunic, in ever familiar red. 

“Here, dry your hair. You look like a limpet.”

Merlin took it with a shy grace, and Arthur took a deep breath. He was both renewed and exhausted by the afternoon and all its thoughts. It was a moment to themselves, a moment where he could almost see the coming days awash in gold. A golden age, Merlin’s dragon called it. He could almost see it.

An unspoken agreement had them leading the horses back to the castle, walking side by side in companionable silence. Arthur had become so used to Merlin’s voice, prattling on, saying nothing, that he realized it was just a cover so Arthur would not know, would not learn the truth in the silence.

They say that the truth will set you free. For Merlin, it did. In a way it freed him to be silent. Arthur smiled inwardly, and bumped his shoulder against Merlin’s. 

“Thank you.”

Merlin startled. 

“For what?”

Arthur smiled and looked up at the sky, filtered through the leaves. 

“For what you did today.”

Merlin ducked his head and smiled in return. 

“You’re welcome.”

They reached the clearing at the edge of the ridge, Camelot’s walls golden in the distance. Arthur slowed his walk to a crawl, not yet ready to return to the demands of the keep.

Merlin watched him slow. 

“Not ready to go back yet?”

He shook his head. 

“I thought we’d watch the sun set. In memory.”

Merlin nodded, and pulled the horses to him, loosely tethering their reigns to a sapling. He stood beside Arthur under the branches of an old oak, as the shadows crept long fingers over the valley. 

“It’s beautiful like this. The light just washes everything off, as if it were new. There is no death, no fear in a castle like that.”

The scuff of boots and the creak of branches answered him. From somewhere up above, Merlin’s voice drifted. 

“I used to climb the trees out in the old forest, dreaming of castles that looked like that. Castles made of gold and silver where it was always summer.” He laughed, and Arthur looked up with a smile. 

“Still after my castle, Merlin? You magic types are all the same.”

“No, no my castle had walls of gold and streets of silver, and along the walls ivy grew so you could climb everywhere. And there were no adults, because they couldn’t get through the doors, they were too short. No stairs either.”

Arthur’s grin grew wide, Merlin’s childish glee was infectious. 

“I suppose you’ll start a gardening campaign once I’m king?”

Merlin snorted. 

“Hardly.” He tossed a handful of leaves down at Arthur. “Not like I need to plant anything.” 

He climbed back down and laid long across the heaviest of the lower branches. 

“Watch.”

From Merlin’s hand a little leaf poked out from between his knuckles, and crept across his hand to curl over the bones of his wrist. It split and doubled back, looping under the branch and tentatively poking at his elbow before darting underneath his tunic. The little green vines spread and unfurled shy pointed leaves in a rustle.

“See?” 

Merlin’s smirk was audible, and Arthur let loose a laugh. He wanted to scold, to remind Merlin to keep his magic hidden, but this little mischief, he needed this. Needed to know that soon, it would be safe to be himself.

Arthur reached a hand up. 

“Come down before you and your vines tie you there.” 

Arthur reached for his hand and Merlin grinned, and pulled on the cuff of his shirt. 

Arthur took back his hand. 

“What are you up to? Don’t you ruin my clothes enough as it is?”

Merlin snorted. 

“You’ll see.”

For a moment Arthur’s heart constricted, and then the first of the flowers bloomed on the vine, little caps of red fuzzy petals nestled in the shy little leaves. 

Arthur snorted. 

“What is with you and flowers?”

Merlin grinned and reached out to tug on his hair. 

“Ow!” he cried out, and batted at the offense. 

“So, sire, enough of the flowers?” He grinned and his eyes gleamed. 

Arthur huffed a laugh. 

“No more flowers.”

With a muttered word, the flowers… wiggled… and Arthur took a step back. From the base of the tree to the vines across Merlin’s hand, the flowers...breathed.

He took a step forward, and then another, peering at the fuzzy flowers. Then one leapt at him. 

He gasped, and the flower - now a butterfly - took to his shoulder; another to flit near his knees. 

“So, not flowers anymore.”

“Merlin… I thought we were keeping your magic quiet.”

“Butterflies are quiet.”

“They are bright, red butterflies. There are no red butterflies.”

“Fine,” he huffed, and he stared at his hands. He cupped them close and then let the syllables Arthur had come to associate with Merlin’s mischief fly. From behind his fingers a large sedate butterfly flapped long elegant, golden wings.

“So… how about this one? A blonde butterfly for a blonde prat.”

Arthur shook his head as the little red ones flitted near him. 

“You’re not helping your case here, Merlin.”

“What about blue ones?”

“Merlin,” he cried, exasperated. “It’s late summer, there are almost no butterflies left! Green or blue, and definitely not red or gold.”

“But they are pretty.” His voice was wistful. Soft and hopeful. Arthur couldn’t condemn that thread of hope.

“They are pretty.”

“Camelot’s colors.”

Arthur stilled. 

“That they are.”

“You should keep them.“ 

The golden butterfly flitted from Merlin’s finger to Arthur’s head, and he held still, breaths shallow. 

Merlin smiled. 

“A living crown of gold.” He moved his hand, and the smaller red butterflies followed, “and of crimson.” 

Arthur felt his cheeks redden. 

“A crown of ivy and yarn.”

“Of hope and intangible things.”

Merlin looked down into his eyes and then out to the gilded walls, the color of violet creeping over them. 

“I can almost see it Arthur, the kingdom we would create. A golden age of peace.”

Arthur held his head still. 

“An age of peace and flowers and butterflies?”

Merlin’s eyes crinkled at the edges. 

“Only the best for my princess.”


End file.
